


Green Therapy 101

by omagerdnerdynord



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Harley Quinn (Cartoon 2019), Harley Quinn (Comics), Poison Ivy (Comics)
Genre: Actually Porn WITH plot AND feelings, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, F/F, Light Dom/sub, PWP, PWP without Porn, Pam is a hot professor, Praise Kink, Professor!Pamela, Sexual Tension, Shameless Smut, Smut, Student!Harley, Teasing, This is pure filth, harley is very thirsty, sin - Freeform, sin sin sin, so much fucking sexual tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:42:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28945359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omagerdnerdynord/pseuds/omagerdnerdynord
Summary: At this point Pamela couldn’t even remember how from a simple eye lock that fateful day, she’d found herself on the receiving end of an all-out war on her sanity. The inappropriateness of Harley’s advances was as much as a deterrent to Pamela as gasoline on fire, which only made her inner turmoil that much worse for the frenzied images that kept her up at night.ORHarley signs up to Dr Isley's class just for the thirst. Read this for some sexual tension and pure smut.
Relationships: Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel
Comments: 18
Kudos: 213





	Green Therapy 101

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, hi. I know I have another unfinished work but I suddenly had inspiration for this so please please forgive me 🥺...  
> I hope you enjoy the absolute SIN that this is. I can't decide if I'm sorry for this or not 😳.

Professor Pamela Isley has had _enough_.

Never in a million years would she have imagined that the thing that would test her patience, push her limits to an unprecedented edge, would be a petite blonde student in her class. It simply would’ve been too absurd to even _contemplate_.

How could she, with the memories of the hard work and dedication it took her to be the youngest person to earn a doctorate in her field? How could she, with the gruelling work she’d put into revolutionizing botany and biochemistry in the short few years since her graduation and immediate tenure at Gotham University? It would’ve been _preposterous_ to consider anything else than her impressive academic career as the standout hardship in her life.

And yet, none of these milestones had brought her so close to the precipice. At the moment, Dr. Isley could no longer deny her reality. One Miss Harleen Quinzel, top psych student at Gotham University, had undeniably pushed her to the brink, more so than anything else in her life ever had. She’d give her a round of applause for that feat, were her hands not otherwise occupied: one was tensely holding the red pen she was using to grade papers, and the other was digging her short nails into her own palm, the dull pain helping her ground herself to the silent but occupied auditorium.

When the Director of Gotham University had asked her to teach a cross-major course on the therapeutic uses of plants and gardening on the human psyche, she’d accepted without really thinking it over. It wouldn’t have increased her workload dramatically, and she’d get to share her passion for the Green with an even greater number of people. And now…now oh how she wished she’d declined. She already had so many damn unfinished projects she would’ve loved to work on…but the workaholic in her had accepted, and there’d been no going back. Now here she was, sitting at her desk in her pristine fir-green suit, absolutely failing at not thinking about one _very_ troublesome student taking her final exam just a few meters away.

Dr. Isley’s troubles started months ago, from the very first “Green Therapy 101” lecture. The air was still warm in early September, and students were filing into the auditorium, skin darkened from a summer spent in the sun. She’d been calmly going through her class plan and notes at her desk, in her usual bubble of concentration before the bell rang when she first saw her. A cute, bubbly woman in the first row. She stood out like a sore thumb with her pale skin, it was littered with tattoos of all shapes and sizes. Her blonde hair was up in twin pigtails, dip-dyed blue and pink, and she was wearing ripped blue shorts, giving Pamela’s eyes access to even more of the delicate black lines etched into her skin.

Pamela didn’t even really notice she’d been staring; eyes straining to try and make out the girl’s many tattoos. She’d been fully dragged out of her pre-lecture bubble, entirely engrossed by the unicorn on her thigh, the roman numerals on her arm, the diamond shapes on her shoulders…and did that tattoo spell out “rotten”?

Suddenly her eyes met piercing blue. She’d been caught, and the student gave her a sly smirk before returning to her animated conversation with neighbouring students.

That was… _odd_. Pamela straightened her papers against the table, cleared her throat, and managed to teach her class relatively normally (her eyes _did_ land more on a particular student).

Although she’d never considered herself a people person and only enjoyed the company of a few close friends, she enjoyed teaching. It seemed to be an exception to the usually draining feeling she had when in contact with a crowd. In this setting, she felt energized and in control. In this setting, she could talk about her life’s passion, share her expertise, and feel like she was doing her part in raising awareness about the environment. When she taught, she would always get into a ‘zone’, almost dissociating from her body, entirely focused on presenting information effectively to her students.

And yet, as she taught this lecture, and the next, and every “Green therapy 101” lecture that semester, she never really entered that zone fully. And the reason for that was one Harleen Frances Quinzel.

At this point Pamela couldn’t even remember how from a simple eye lock that fateful day, she’d found herself on the receiving end of an all-out war on her sanity. And that wasn’t a figure of speech. For months, twice a week, at each lecture, Harley would find ways to confuse, trick, tease, and arouse her. And it irked her to no end. The inappropriateness of Harley’s advances was as much as a deterrent to Pamela as gasoline on fire, which only made her inner turmoil that much worse for the frenzied images that kept her up at night.

Why was she doing this? How did she know it had an effect on her? Why _her_?

Even as summer made way for crisp autumn air, rain and eventually the bone chilling cold of Gotham winter, Harley would always come to class dressed in the most revealing clothing possible and would plop down right in the front row, just in front of her desk. Sometimes it was tight, corseted tops, or a large men’s dress shirt with a belt. Sometimes it was tight yoga pants, or _criminally_ short skirts. Other times it was open flannels with a lacy bra, or skin-tight turtlenecks with shorts and thigh high boots… the list went on. Pamela was sure that by now she’d memorized every dip and curve on her student’s lithe body, every tattoo, every freckle. She’d now come to accept cold showers as her new normal.

Evidently, her clothing wasn’t the issue. She’d seen many students in similar attire, flaunting skin was a personal freedom. What made the outfits so deadly was how Harley would skilfully and strategically command Pamela’s attention to them and to her pale, exposed skin whenever she skipped into her class, ponytails swishing along.

Most of the time, Pamela could handle herself. The mischievous blonde would toy with her soft, pink lips with her fingers, would chew her pens or gum, blow bubbles, eat lollipops (what kind of college student ate lollipops!?). She’d bring attention to her long, kissable neck as she played with her hair and stretched, or to her chest as she leaned forward on her desk (which was at Pamela’s eye level of course). Professor Isley would try and fight the blood that rushed to her face, try to fight the pulsing heat she felt between her legs as Harley slowly, theatrically crossed her own, gaze boring into Pamela as if daring her to do something about it. All of this, Pamela usually could handle. But Harley was a bright, creative young woman.

The auditorium’s seats were fanned out in a semi-circle in front of her desk. The first row where Harley always sat was at Pamela’s eye level, and each row was higher than the one before it, like great stairs. This meant that when Harley talked with friends sitting behind her during breaks, she was usually standing, back to her, and often slightly bent over her peers’ elevated table to rest her elbows.

The first time this had happened, Harley had been wearing her signature mismatched thigh highs and tight shorts combo, the firm curve of her ass just crying out for Pam to touch, tempting her to slide a knee in between her legs and grind until the room was filled with sobbing sounds of her pleasure.

Needless to say, her knuckles had gone white at the sight, and Harley had peeked over her shoulder to make eye contact for a hot second, a sly smirk splitting her features. Pamela had been adamant not to let the woman know how effective her tactics were, so only her hands and the slight purse of her lips could betray how deadly to her imagination the pose had been. If she’d close her eyes, she’d be able to see in greater detail how devilishly debauched Harley would look bent over that table as she pounded into her mercilessly. She’d be able to see how red her lips would be from biting, how tense her hands would be as she held onto the curved table for dear life. She’d maybe even be able to imagine how the skin of her neck would taste, how warm her body would feel, flush against her chest.

But Pamela was a woman of self-control, and even more so a woman of _pride_. She would not let this young woman get the better of her, so she pointedly ignored the heat of the flames licking down her belly and waited for the bell to ring to resume her lecture, her voice a smidge more modulated, her movements stiffer.

They didn’t spend an entire semester in a silent war: Harley was a quick-witted, participative student to have in class. Which is why Pamela was always so _confused_ when her top student, who effortlessly mastered class material and handed in astute essays, would sometimes raise her hand to ask the _simplest_ questions. At first, Pamela had thought she was simply asking them to help the class advance as a whole, but she quickly caught on when, with each raised hand, Harley consistently dropped clever innuendos. Beyond teasing her teacher, she had a hunch that her blonde student also enjoyed having her undivided attention for a few minutes, Pamela ineluctably having to increase eye contact as she’d politely answer whatever thinly veiled sex joke she’d sent her way that day.

The blonde never missed a chance to greet her at every lecture with a dangerous mixture of honeyed voice, inventive pet names and a wink. She’d tried to correct Harley on the inappropriateness of a student calling her by her first name (Pammie, Pam-a-lamb…) and that had backfired spectacularly, when the student simply started calling her ‘Red’, and ‘Daffodil’, and quite another number of tooth-achingly sweet pet names that absolutely did not make her stomach flutter.

One morning a student had overheard Harley calling her “sweetie’ and had raised a pert eyebrow up at her, so she’d had to take Harley aside after class to set things straight. (What a fitting word.) She knew how fast rumours could spread at Gotham U and she wouldn’t be a victim of the gossip mill. Not if she had her say in it. Up close, the sexual tension felt so thick she’d had to focus on her breathing, on the energetic blonde’s mesmerizing blue eyes, and definitely not anything lower than that. She should have been more suspicious that the conversation had gone so smoothly, suspicious that Harley had listened to her stern voice and nodded along, agreeing to call her by something more appropriate.

She let her guard down, thinking nothing could be any worse than the pet names, falsely reassured by Harley’s promise. She was completely unprepared when, two days later at the next lecture, a more demure-looking Harley had slowed down by her desk with a “Good mornin’, _Professor Isley_.”, the moniker just dripping off her lips like pure sex. Her heart had skipped a beat, her whole body had thrummed, and she’d looked up to see the triumphant look in her student’s eyes, who was looking at the snapped pencil in her hand as she primly sat down at her table.

_Fucking hell_.

But Pamela held on. Her cold mask of professionalism managed to hold the entire semester, and only someone with extraordinary observing skills would be able to notice the occasional, discreet heat rising to her cheeks, the more frequent crossing of legs, the restrained shifts in posture and body language.

Someone with extraordinary observing skills, or her best friend. Selina quickly caught wind of her predicament, seeing the fatigue in her friend’s face as she graded Harley’s paper across from her at the café. After a long explanation, unwelcome taunts and throaty laughter, her socialite friend had told her to get it out of her system, had forcefully downloaded tinder for her and swiped right on all the cute blondes in her area. But one-night stands hadn’t worked. Cold showers hadn’t worked. And god help her she’d never give in to actually taking matters into her own hand, for the sake of her moral integrity. No matter how many wet dreams had her tossing and turning at night, no matter how drenched she’d wake up, no matter how much Harley drove her mad with lust, Pamela would not touch herself while thinking of a student. Even if she was only what, six? Seven years older than her?

Professor Isley took the situation seriously, and held on, barely managing to keep a cool, collected front on until the module ended. And today was the day. As soon as that bell rang, announcing the end of “Green Therapy 101”’s final exam, she’d be _free_.

Pamela was already grading the papers that some students had handed in early, gripping her pen and digging her nails into her hand, willing herself to just get past this final hurdle and not think about the knee-high socks, pleated miniskirt, white shirt and high ponytail that Harley had decided to wear today. The blonde really had a sick sense of humour, sending her off with a ‘schoolgirl look’.

\----

Harley had never enjoyed a class more. Of course, she loved the subject matter and revelled in getting taught this one-of-a-kind approach to therapy from such a celebrated scientist. It also didn’t hurt that she easily mastered the lecture material and scored top-of-the-class grades. However, that wasn’t the main appeal of ‘Green Therapy 101’. The appeal was one Doctor Pamela Isley. Pammie. Red.

Sure, anyone with eyes would say they’d never seen a more gorgeous woman: long, curly red hair that cascaded just so, sharp green eyes, a pair of strong, long legs, perfectly tailored suits and a matching pair of fuck-me heels. But for Harley it was more than that. Professor Isley had caught her interest last semester, when she’d made an appearance as a guest speaker in one of her lectures. As soon as she’d stepped in, Harley’s heart had beat faster, the steady drumming feeling almost as fast as a hummingbird’s.

Doctor Isley just _emanated_ a cool, commanding aura that had hushed the big auditorium as she stepped forward. Everyone had perked up when she’d taken over from their meek professor, putting away their phones to give her their full, undivided attention. That day she’d been wearing her trademark pantsuit, white sleeves rolled up above her elbows, and even from a few rows up Harley had gotten lost in the many freckles sprinkled on her firm-looking forearms. She’d been so engrossed in them, eyes starting to take in her long, elegant fingers, that she’d been caught off guard when Dr. Isley had started to speak.

Her _voice_. Husky, modulated, silvery. The sound of it had gone straight to Harley’s core, and she’d had to bite her lip as an image of the professor bending her over that very table flashed in her mind’s eye. Good god did she have a _type_. She spent the entire lecture with her legs crossed, fidgeting with her pen to try and expel some of her pent-up energy.

As soon as she’d heard the professor was going to be teaching a course that was relevant to her curriculum, she’d eagerly signed up for the elective without a second thought. Her original motivations were simply to get to stare and listen at the gorgeous woman all semester long and learn more about a newly developing sub-field of psychology… a win-win situation. That was it. But then, on the first day, she’d felt a pair of eyes heating up her skin. She didn’t pay it much mind, she knew people liked to stare at her tattoos (and knew what she looked like, thank you very much) and just kept on talking with her friends Jonathan and Eddie.

A minute or so in, she had still felt the tingle of her hairs rising on the back of her neck, so she’d turned her head to meet the mystery starer. She unexpectedly locked eyes with Doctor Isley’s, who promptly looked back down at her notes.

_Interesting…_

That look was the start of a _very_ fun semester for one Harleen Quinzel. Just as she’d expected, she _greatly_ enjoyed “Green Therapy 101”. The subject matter was fascinating, of course, and the professor was skilled in teaching and sharing her passion for her field. Harley often found herself crossing her legs, letting herself feel the pleasant chills that slowly ran through her body at the sound of her voice. But what really brought her enjoyment to another level was the unexpected bonus of toying with the professor after she’d caught her staring that first day. She kept on testing the waters, wondering how far Dr Isley would let her take this. It really was a wonder that she managed to keep up her customary academic brilliance, seeing as her mind was entirely brimming with more and more ideas to tease the Professor.

_Oh yes_ , she was revelling in testing the limits of Pamela Isley’s façade of stoicism. And she wasn’t the top psych student for nothing: her tactics were _definitely_ working. She loved feeling the redhead’s heated gaze light up her skin when she wore revealing outfits, how her jaw would tense up when she purposefully bent over desks to talk to friends behind her or how a slight blush peppered her cheeks when she addressed her with cutesy nicknames.

She loved reading her body language, seeing how her calm composure was slowly but surely being chipped away with each new ploy. Yet, she knew this game was a double-edged sword. She’d jokingly considered bringing an extra pair of panties for each lecture because the redhead just consistently affected her simply by her presence and throaty voice. It seemed the effect the older woman had on her never wore off.

Because of this, she’d had to ask her friends to share their notes with her on many occasions, seeing as she’d been too preoccupied to take proper ones herself. On some level Jon and Eddie were so done with her shit (of course they’d noticed what was going on), but they loved their dumbass friend too much, and sharing their notes was no problem. They themselves were enjoying watching this game of cat and mouse, and they wouldn’t interfere with it for the world. (It might have something to do with Harley enjoying herself so much, and how they loved seeing how much she smiled these days.)

Harley had been born with a very vivid imagination, and with great power came _no responsibility_. She unabashedly indulged herself with daydreams of Pamela. The suits, heels and red lip just _did_ something to her, she would get soaked at the thought of getting up from her seat, walking up to Pamela, threading her hands through her hair and just devouring her, pushing her against the chalky blackboard, feeling those strong looking arms pressing her closer…

In short, yes, Harley had had a _very_ good semester, thank you very much. Sexually frustrating? Perhaps. But wasn’t the buildup the best part? Walking into the auditorium on this last day of exams, sizzling electricity coursed up her back as the Professor’s eyes registered her outfit (was it maybe too on the nose?). After months of play, this felt like a tight elastic pulled back, ready to snap at any moment. She was waiting for it to happen with bated breath.

\-----

Harley had made sure to hand in her exam last. She was standing primly in front of the desk, lightly rocking on the balls of her feet to expel some of her nervous energy. Even though she’d finished nearly half an hour ago, she’d waited until all the students had filed away, and when Pamela finally looked up from her grading to look at her, she felt her cheeks flush from the sheer _look_ of her face.

_Oh, fuck_.

Professor Isley’s eyes felt intense and blazing hot against her skin. All semester long she’d noticed the cold restraint with which the professor held herself, and now there was no such pretence: Pamela had _snapped_ , and Harley’s legs almost buckled, weak, and her throat felt tight.

…and she blanked. Completely forgot what she had wanted to say at all, now entirely focused on the _look_ the woman was giving her.

Pamela’s forest green eyes were like nothing she’d ever seen before, pupils blown wide, gaze intensely raking up her body. The intensity of the moment was palpable. Harley had to stifle a whimper, and she heard her blood roar in her ears, a clear reminder of her speeding heartbeat.

The professor’s chair made a screeching noise against the floor when she rose, and suddenly Harley was met with the reminder that the older woman was a full head taller than her. Neck and eyes angled upwards, she struggled to swallow her saliva a bit, a gulping sound echoing in the now fully empty auditorium. It took all her self-control to stop her hands from fidgeting with the edge of her final paper.

Pamela’s voice broke the charged silence. “Miss Quinzel. You wished to speak to me?”

The nape of her neck tingled; she was painfully aware of how being addressed this way made her insides melt. Harley cleared her throat a bit before speaking, internally wincing at how breathless she sounded.

“Professor Isley,” She held her arms out, handing in her essay. “Yes, I jus’ wanted to thank ya for teachin’ this class. It’s been a real _pleasure_.”

“Oh yes I’m well aware you had your fair share of _fun_ , this semester, Miss Quinzel.”

_Fuckin’ hell, she’d betta stop callin’ me that or I won’t be makin’ it._ The woman’s voice was deeper than usual, a bit gravellier, and felt like a bellow was fanning the flames that gripped her lower belly. They were spreading fast.

“Yes, well, you’re such a wicked good teacher, Red, so of course I enjoyed myself…since I was in such good hands, ya know?”

Harley bit her lip and noticed how green eyes followed.

Pamela’s red lips started moving, which probably meant she was talking to her, but she couldn’t really hear anything. Harley was entirely focused on how the soft, plump flesh moved, on how good they would feel pressed against her own. Harley had given up on paying attention, fully operating on autopilot now.

For a couple of minutes, she and the Professor kept on exchanging pleasantries, letting the tension grow, feigning normalcy as they talked about the course material that was the most _riveting_. They slowly inched closer, entering each other’s space when the second bell rang, shrill like a freezing bucket of water.

Pamela broke her eyes away and started packing up her things, Harley still hovering next to her at her desk.

“Well, I must be leaving you now, Miss Quinzel. Please enjoy your winter break.”

“Harley.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m not yer student anymore, so uh,” she tucked a loose blonde strand of hair behind her ear nervously. “, I was hopin’ you could call me Harley.”

Later on, she’d realise how with these few words, she’d crossed the point of no return. But right now, all she could think about was how she didn’t want the professor to leave just yet. She’d successfully found a way to keep her talking just a bit longer.

Pamela’s hands froze and her neck turned so that their eyes could meet again. A light, innocent smile graced her lips.

A beat, as she seemed to make a decision. Her eyes became unreadable.

"Well, Harley, as the _top_ student in this class you've made quite an impression on me.” Harley beamed up at her, but the Professor wasn’t done. “Your essays were excellent,”- she faltered- “just, so _good_.” Harley’s breath hitched, low yet audible in the large, empty room.

“ _You_ were _so good_.”

She let out the tiniest whimper and realised that Pamela’s innocent smile was _anything but_. She didn’t know if the words were echoing in the auditorium or in her head. Each word that dripped from red lips just went straight to her core, buzzing in a way that made her clench her thighs together, feeling the smooth texture of her tights rub against itself.

She’d never felt more alive, felt such burning desire to just wipe the smirk off the redhead’s lips, to show her how _good_ she really was.

“So, I do hope you'll keep me- this module, in mind once you graduate, that you'll keep your taste for flowers, yes?" Professor Isley adjusted her suit’s jacket, standing straighter.

Harley’s entire body was flushed, and she was struggling to keep her breathing even. She unconsciously blocked the Professor’s way with her body when she made a step forward towards the door. This had brought her directly into her personal space, and she easily got lost gazing at Pamela’s smatter of freckles, the curve of her nose, the teeth that worried her lip, the small furrow on her brow that she’d love to smooth away with a kiss…

When they finally kissed, it was like a rubber band snapping into place, inevitable, sudden. Neither could’ve been able to tell who leaned in first, and it wouldn’t have mattered anyways. What mattered was the utter, immediate relief they felt as soon as their lips locked into place.

The relief was short-lived, immediately replaced with a burning, desperate need coiling tightly in their bellies. Harley’s arms were looped around Pamela’s neck, bringing their bodies deliciously flush together, and she could feel herself throbbing when Pamela’s hands found her hips, finger toying with the fabric of her skirt. She bit back a moan when the redhead moved to nestle her leg between her own, the thigh barely alleviating her centre’s growing need for friction. _Fuck_. She enthusiastically grinded against it, letting out little breathy moans and whimpers against the professor’s lips. Harley could’ve sworn her body had melted against Pamela’s, were it not for the pure heat she felt everywhere where hands met her skin.

Her white buttoned shirt had slowly slipped out of the confines of her skirt’s waistband, and Pamela’s hands soon ventured under the fabric with single-minded purpose. Before the hands reached their destination, however, Harley’s face broke into a shit-eating grin, breaking up the kiss in the process. Pamela had let out a whimper. A tiny, feminine whimper. Because their legs were interlocked so intimately, all of Harley’s grinding motions had been mirrored by her creamy thigh, stark white against the forest green of Pamela’s pantsuit. With their heads still pressed together, she rolled her hips again, tentatively, her heavily hooded eyes waiting for Pamela’s to open, to realize that the whimper was hers.

Forest greens met baby blues.

The auditorium was filled with the sound of their irregular, heavy breathing. Harley bit her lip playfully and broke her head away from Pamela’s, wanting to fully appreciate how flushed and dishevelled she looked. Her long, wavy locks were mussed up from Harley’s mindless toying and tugging. Her red lipstick was smudged, her lips slightly swollen from Harley’s playful bites.

“Didn’t think I’d get ya to sound like that, Pammie,” She grinned devilishly. “But I sure thought ‘bout it.”

Despite the blush that rose to her cheeks, Pamela held her composure. “Oh, so you’ve thought about this, _Miss Quinzel_?”

“Harley.” She defiantly bit back, but the effect was lost with the cant of her hips and the higher pitch of her voice. “I told ya to call me Harley.”

Hands still up her shirt, resting high on her waist and tracing small patterns, Pamela pushed her body against Harley, slowly moving them back towards the massive wooden desk.

“You see, _Harley_ , I don’t mind indulging you and calling you by your first name, but I don’t really think you’re in any position to make demands here.”

Just as she finished her sentence, Harley felt the wooden desk pushing into her ass. She’d been backed into a corner, and her mind raced with the countless fantasies she’d had about defiling this desk, with the very person pressing her into it no less. She could still feel the ghost of Pamela’s hands resting just under breasts, and she wished those hands would just reach up and _touch her already_.

Which is why she couldn’t really come up with anything better than a “Oh, why’s that?”, as her arms left the redhead’s neck, dropping down to grip the desk behind her for stability.

Pamela answered with a confident roll of her hips, and Harley’s eyes closed shut in pleasure, a sharp exhale whistling out of her nose. The rocking motion had her rising to her tiptoes, and now she was leaning, partly sitting on the desk’s edge. Her pleated skirt had risen, exposing a handful of her homemade tattoos.

“Because,” Pamela nudged her legs open with her hips, stepping properly back into her personal space, “You’ve been cruelly teasing me. All. Semester. Long.” Harley’s skin felt cold when a hand slipped out of her shirt to hold her chin up. She cracked open her eyes, meeting Pamela’s intense, nearly predatory gaze. Her face was stoic.

“Why should I do what you say, when you’ve been so naughty?”

“Please…”

Was that her voice? Fuck. Harley had never felt so desperate to be touched. She was too turned on to even be embarrassed of how soaked she was, probably enough to stain the front of the green pantsuit against her. How was she driving her mad with lust even though she hadn’t even _touched_ her properly?

“Please, _what_?”

Harley’s hips unconsciously canted up, and she immediately realized her mistake when Pamela froze up against her, poker face splitting into a grin. “Uh-uh, Harley.” Pamela’s hand moved up from her waist and unexpectedly grabbed her breast, pinching her nipple through the lacy fabric of her bra. Harley bit down on her lip, hard, concentrating on keeping her hips still.

“First you have to tell me what you want, what you’ve been ‘thinking about’, as you said earlier, yes?”

“…Yes.” Harley was on _fire_.

Pamela hummed and brought both her hands to Harley’s waist, propping her up to get her sitting properly on the desk, thigh highs neatly bracing the professor’s hips. She gave her an expectant look, and the blonde gulped at the strong hands now softly running against her thighs, slowly creeping up her skirt.

“W-well, I’ve thought about ya railin’ me against this desk, for starters.”

“Yeah?” Pamela’s hands were getting closer and closer to her center. “Is that what you want me to do?”

Harley felt like a livewire, hyper aware of every small touch of Pamela’s hands against her skin, her laboured breathing making her chest heave slightly. It took a couple of seconds for the question to register, and she nodded her head mutely, blue eyes still boring into greens.

“ _Miss Quinzel_ ,” the way she said her name and the quirk of her eyebrow had Harley feeling weak in the knees, “I’m sure you can do _better_ than that.”

Harley _could_ do better than that. She _wanted_ to be better than that, wanted to do anything to please the woman standing between her legs. So, she went on, voice needy and high. “I want ya to bend me over this table and fuck me right.”

Pamela growled at her words, and her once dancing hands gripped her thighs, tight. Harley whimpered.

“Plea-“ Pamela shut her up with a searing kiss, slowly laying her down flat on the desk as she explored her hot mouth with her tongue. Harley bit down lightly on her lower lip when the hand on her thigh travelled up and dragged a finger against her ruined underwear. She was definitely starting to regret wearing tights, aching for the feel of skin against skin.

Almost like she’d read her thoughts, Pamela broke away and started unbuttoning her shirt, deft fingers making short work of it. Her red lips quickly found her neck when she was done, sucking the skin into her mouth as Harley shimmied out of the white piece of clothing. The wooden desk felt cool against her skin, but she couldn’t care less, the look of pure need in Pamela’s eyes making her clench and swallow hard.

\--

Pamela Isley felt like her whole body was thrumming faintly to the beat of her heart.

In the back of her mind, she knew that this was highly inappropriate, doing this in the middle of an auditorium, when anyone could walk in and see her, a _professor_ , defiling her dishevelled student against her desk. But then an another, stronger, louder part of her told her to _fuck it_. Today was the last day of exams so everyone had been eager to leave, the hallways were probably empty. _Fuck it_ , because she was finally getting to do what she’d been dreaming about for the past few months, finally getting revenge for the absolute _torture_ this little tease has inflicted on her. _Fuck it_ , because she was dizzy for the gasping, warm, wanting woman beneath her.

A woman who’d very clearly asked her to _bend her over this table and fuck her_. Fuck. She made a quiet, strangled noise at the sight of Harley shimmying out of her unbuttoned shirt and laying back down, looking up at her expectantly. Her pale skin was sprinkled with clear black lines and red lipstick, locks of hair had escaped her high ponytail, and, deadliest of all, she was laying back on this wooden desk in nothing but a lacy black bra, a hiked up pleated skirt and some goddamn thigh highs. Thigh highs that were now wrapped around her waist, tugging her close.

Pamela chuckled and gladly went back to work, sensually kissing down her former student’s neck, down her clavicle and onto her breasts, where she gave a nipple a playful bite. Palming the other, she continued her descent down her stomach, revelling in the needy whimpers that kept on getting higher and higher. She couldn’t remember when Harley’s fingers had woven themselves into her hair, but she took in a sharp breath when her hand made a fist in her hair. The tugging feeling just sparked down her body and throbbed between her thighs. She’d get undressed too if she could, but she had a priority right now.

_Punish._

She grabbed Harley by the hipbones and, with a raspy voice, urged the blonde to roll over.

The look that Harley gave her as she turned around would haunt her for _months_. Lazy smile, swollen lips, hooded eyes, and a purring, soft, “ _Yes_ ,” as she rolled onto her stomach, neck turned to maintain eye contact.

Not really wanting the blonde to see how affected she was by the wanton look sent her way, she pulled Harley towards her by the hips into the correct position, properly bent over the desk. And, damn if it wasn’t the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen. Her blood was roaring in her ears, and she had half a mind to regret not packing that day because she could easily picture how wonderful it would be to make the blonde take her length over and over, make her cries of pleasure echo in the classroom.

Pamela wasn’t blind to the irony of the situation, seeing as Harley had teased this visual so many times over the course of the module. And now she could finally make her _pay_. The few seconds she’d been taking in the view were already too much for the needy student, who looked back at her pleadingly and tried to rub her ass back into Pamela’s hovering hips.

The professor splayed a hand on her lower back and leaned over to whisper in her ear, still not giving her what she truly wanted, keeping her lower body from being flush against her behind. “ _Miss Quinzel_ , is this what you’d envisioned?”

Harley’s right arm shot up, desperately trying to bring Pamela closer, but she lightly slapped it away.

“Is that any way to ask for what you want? As _top_ student in my module I’d expect a more… articulate form of expression.” She let her breath tickle her ear, approvingly noticing how the blonde had gone still, body tense and begging to be touched.

Harley keened, and her voice was almost a whisper as she finally used her words. “Please, _Professor Isley_ , I-” at those words, Pamela couldn’t refrain from lightly pushing into Harley from behind, giving her some sort of relief. She moaned. “Please pound me into this table.”

“I’ll consider it. Will you keep your hands in front of you?” 

Harley sobbed and nodded, and Pamela wasn’t cruel, she grabbed her by the hips and started to slowly thrust into her, her teeth very gently grazing down her neck.

“Oh god!”

“I’m flattered, but I’d rather you call me by my name, _Miss Quinzel._ ” Pamela was sure her sardonic smile must be quite a sight. She could feel herself dripping in her slacks, her skin prickling at the sight of Harley arching her hips back frantically, seeking more direct friction.

“ _Of course,_ ” Harley’s voice broke into a moan when she nudged her knee against her center and started grinding down in earnest. Pamela could feel the wet warmth seeping through the material and felt annoyed at the barrier. So, she did something brash. She grabbed the fabric with two hands and pulled, _hard_ , the tights ripping down the seam. With the momentum, Pam’s knuckles brushed directly against Harley, who cried out and shuddered.

“ _Pammie…_ ”

Pamela made a noncommittal noise, fingers already teasing around Harley’s entrance, one hand palming her ass, the other tracing against the skin around the edge of her black lace.

“I need you inside me, _please_ ” the blonde begged so earnestly, she couldn’t deny her any longer.

Pamela pushed the fabric to the side and heard Harley take in a sharp breath.

\---

Harley felt the cool air hit her first, and she muffled her moan into her arm when Pamela’s finger dragged across her slit teasingly. She was going to die today. She was sure of it. Her face was about to combust, her throat felt parched, and she could feel herself dripping down her thighs. Any foreplay would be entirely unnecessary at this point. But she couldn’t risk saying anything that might get Pam to stop, so she concentrated on holding the edge of the desk tighter, her knuckles going white against the rich brown wood.

It felt like Pam instinctively knew what she wanted, or could read her body language perfectly well, because she didn’t tease her too long.

_Pure bliss._ That’s what she felt when Pamela’s long fingers finally sunk into her wet heat. She bit down on her lip and her back arched despite herself, trying to angle herself better towards the redhead.

Pamela started a slow, lazy rhythm, pumping her fingers in a way that filled the silent auditorium with intoxicating wet, slick noises. Harley was not a patient woman, and she felt like this had been going on forever. If her former professor didn’t start pounding into her soon she might break.

“ _Please…_ ”

“Please, what?” the voice felt sticky sweet.

“Please, Red, I just want ya ruttin’ into me hard! Can’t you see how wet I am for ya?”

“I can. And you’ve been such a _good girl_ , keeping your hands up there for me.”

Harley’s thighs started to quake and she glowed at the praise, letting out a wanton moan that echoed back to her.

_Fuck, do I really sound like that?_

But then Harley had no more thoughts. She just _felt_. Felt as Pamela finally gave her what she needed, what she’d been fantasizing about for months, what she’d seen in her dreams, what had her fucking herself into the early hours of the morning, chasing that release, that itch that she just _needed to scratch_ , but couldn’t, not on her own _._

Pamela started _pounding_ into her with her hand, using her hips to do so. With every thrust, Harley let out little whines and moans of pleasure, and she arched her head back when Pamela started curling her fingers down into that perfect spot.

Suddenly she felt her hair being tugged backwards. Pamela’s hand had wrapped around her ponytail and was holding onto it, thrusting into her even more sharply and mercilessly than before.

Harley could barely believe how hot her whole body felt, like each nerve ending was a lit fuse, and she completely lost herself to the repetitive sensation between her thighs. She could feel a tight heat building in her lower stomach, mounting with each thrust, but never quite bubbling over.

“ _Pam,_ ” She mewled when Pamela shoved their hips together faster. Harley was panting, hard. “Please, _I need_ …”

“What do you need? Tell me, I want you to come, you’ve been _so, so good_.”

Harley’s nails dug deeper into the desk as she let out a long, throaty moan. She arched her hips back, trying to get the message through. She didn’t think she could manage to say it aloud at this point, her breathing too laboured to form words.

Thankfully, Pamela did get the message, and brought her thumb down to rub tight circles against her clit, finally bringing Harley over the edge. The blonde dissolved into pleasure, and everything faded to black as her eyes screwed shut, letting her focus on the splintering heat travelling through her body.

When she came to, Pamela was sitting near her on the desk’s chair, flushed and panting, with her head thrown back, one hand idly tracing patterns on her lower back. It wasn’t very comfortable to crane her neck to see her, this dishevelled-looking Pamela, so Harley tried to move her body towards her, but her knees had other plans.

Legs weak and unstable, she slipped down to the floor, finding herself at the professor’s feet. A green eye cracked open and gave her a lazy smile, which she mirrored with a toothy grin of her own. She felt a bit drunk from the sheer force of the climax, but luckily, Harley had all her best ideas drunk.

Still a bit betrayed by her legs, she closed the short distance between them by crawling and used the armrests to pull herself up to her knees. Green eyes watched her curiously as she tucked her body between spread legs and reached for the waistband of her now slightly stained slacks, popping open the first button.

\--

Pamela felt like a deer caught in headlights.

She always felt very satisfied and proud when the women she slept with came so hard for her, when they trusted her so fully to take care of them… She’d learned to be satisfied with that much. Which is why she hadn’t been prepared for the young woman wishing to return the favour. She’d become so used to the pillow princesses she so often attracted, so consistently been an afterthought, that the blonde’s slow advance had her completely freezing up.

Her heart hammered in her chest as Harley, absolutely wrecked, stripped, well-fucked Harley started crawling towards her, ponytail swishing a bit behind her.

Pamela took in a sharp breath when Harley’s head neared her centre, and she bit back a moan when she slowly tugged her zipper down with her teeth. _Damn that was hot_.

“ _Harley_ …. You don’t have to.”

Blue eyes flew up to meet green, and the intensity behind them stole Pamela’s breath away.

“ _I want to_.” The determined look in her eyes softened a bit. “Do _you_ want this?”

She nodded, and Harley’s hands unconsciously echoed her own when they found her hips and tugged them towards her, making Pam sit on the edge of the chair. Harley’s hands made their way back to her hips and, without breaking eye contact, she slowly slipped her fingers under the waistband. Pam wordlessly lifted her hips, letting the kneeling blonde tug her forest green slacks down with her underwear, leaving her feeling rather exposed.

Her sudden shyness, despite the filthy things she’d said and done just minutes earlier, was short lived, because Harley brought a finger to her slick folds, and she suddenly forgot how to breathe, watching her bring a glistening finger back into her mouth and _sucking_ with a contented hum.

“Ya taste real good, Red.”

_Fuck_. Her mind absolutely blanked at the sight. She felt her lower belly flutter. It made no sense, how could she be so hot, how could this woman have so much power over her?

Harley seemed to really be enjoying herself. She was taking her sweet time, torturing Pamela in the best of ways. Indeed, she didn’t go straight for the kill, (which she could’ve, considering how keyed up Pam was), preferring to play with her juices and her lips instead, alternating between slipping in a finger, biting at her inner thighs and playing with her clit.

Soon enough Pamela’s chest was heaving again, her face completely flushed, with only her pride keeping her from getting what she truly wanted. She would grunt and moan, turned on beyond reason by the undivided attention Harley was giving her. The younger woman barely broke eye contact as she toyed with her gleefully. Unwilling to stoop so low as to beg for Harley to use her mouth on her, she instead fell back to her favourite pastime: praising.

“ _You’re so good_ … _so, so good_.”

Like clockwork, Harley moaned against her, the vibrations causing the redhead to hiss in pleasure, her thighs begging to meet each other again. She didn’t want to hurt her though, so she tensed them up, and tried to keep her hips from canting up into the blonde’s face. She wanted to grab something, anything, and when Harley delved her tongue in for the first time, she couldn’t stop herself from grabbing that damned ponytail again.

It seemed to be the right choice, because Harley enthusiastically started lapping up at her, finally ending her tortuously slow teasing. Pamela could feel the sizzling heat building up as the blonde suckled her clit and curled her fingers mercilessly against her g-spot, and she sadly had to let her eyes close, feeling lightheaded with bliss. She was hurtling towards a cliff, but she needed _more_ to get there.

She gave Harley a few instructions, harder, faster, and a more constant pressure against her clit, and soon enough everything was white, hot pleasure.

When she cracked her eyes open once more, Harley was looking up at her with an adorable little smile on her face, licking her fingers and wiping her chin contentedly.

“So, uh, can a girl take you out to dinner? Even though I just ate…”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!! If you enjoyed please don't be shy, drop a kudo or comment, these really make my day ☀️
> 
> Also shoutout to @xdevyl for helping me! She's awesome and talented, you should check out her 1950s AU.
> 
> PS: did you catch the BoP reference?


End file.
